


One Hand in the Fire

by SwissMiss



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: A Bit Not Good, Established Relationship, F/M, Infidelity, Lies, M/M, No actual threesome, Non-Consensual Voyeurism, Not necessarily a happy ending, PWP, Polyamory, Sex for the wrong reasons, Sloppy Seconds, dubcon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-31
Updated: 2013-12-31
Packaged: 2018-01-06 21:05:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1111509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SwissMiss/pseuds/SwissMiss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Sarah get away for a dirty weekend when Sherlock turns up. Sarah has an idea. And then it all ends up being more complicated than it looked.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One Hand in the Fire

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ficklepig](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ficklepig/gifts).



> This was written as part of the Holmestice December 2014 fan fiction exchange on LJ for ficklepig and beta read by billiethepoet. Please check the tags for possible sensitive issues.

  
  
Sarah and John had been dating for about six months now. It was all very casual and fun. She'd recognised fairly quickly that Sherlock was the most important person in John's life, even if it wasn't 'like that'. Not for John, anyway, although she'd seen the way Sherlock looked at him, and his possessive behaviour was really more jealous lover than self-centred prick (not to say there wasn't plenty of the latter as well). If Sherlock ever looked at her that way, she wasn't entirely certain she wouldn't overlook the self-centred prick bit, either. He was certainly striking; not just aesthetically but in the way he held himself, the way he moved, and the way he commanded attention and made everyone around him either long for or hide from his laser-sharp focus.  
  
It was all academic, though, as the gaydar was definitely beeping loud and clear in his direction. She didn't know whether John was truly oblivious to the attention or simply didn't mind, but either way the two of them clicked as best mates who'd lay their hand in the fire for each other, and no woman was going to be able to compete with that. Which was fine, really.  
  
She'd had live-in lovers before, and by this point in her life, she was self-aware and mature enough to know that she liked having a separate space for herself, needed it really. She was done with someone else using her shaver and leaving half-finished drinks in odd corners to mould and demanding her attention so they could pontificate on the latest Conservative outrage, when all she wanted to do after a long shift at the clinic was curl up on the couch with a glass of wine and read a trashy novel.  
  
At the same time, there were times when she wanted and enjoyed companionship and intimacy, which was why John was perfect. He was fun and spontaneous, he made her feel sexy and clever, and he had his own home that he was perfectly happy to retreat to, even at 2 AM. Most of all, though, he never asked more of her than she was willing to give. She supposed they had a sort of friends-with-benefits understanding. Maybe he'd explained that to Sherlock, too, or more likely the man had picked up on it himself, because he'd only intentionally ruined two more of their dates following the Chinese circus fiasco (the interruptions for genuinely urgent police matters didn't count) before he'd apparently accepted that Sarah wasn't any real competition for Sherlock's central place in John's life.  
  
She understood how it worked: Sherlock provided the entire structure of John's life from the foundations to the gables, while Sarah was allotted one room to decorate. And she had fun doing it. Concerts, cuddles, chicken wings at the pub, Bonfire Night, a night in with a DVD sans fire alarms, and - not so occasionally - sex. Weekend getaways were apparently something she was allowed, too, which was actually somewhat surprising, as it meant John and Sherlock forgoing each other's company for at least 48 hours. Also because two- or three-day trips were something that John and Sherlock did, too (again, not like that), when there was an investigation that took them further afield.  
  
This time, she and John were headed to Glasgow. There was a jazz festival on, and John had managed to get his hands on some tickets. Sarah was looking forward to three days of lie-ins and sightseeing, and two nights of silky saxophones, smoky-voiced singers, and lots of sex. She was going to be rather cross if she wasn't sore everywhere come Monday.  
  
Friday went exactly to plan. They arrived in the middle of the afternoon, checked in at their hotel, and because it was halfway sunny, headed straight for the Riverside Museum with the restored tall ship, John's pick. Hers was the Kelvingrove, but they could do that tomorrow or Sunday, even if the weather turned. Back to the hotel to change, then dinner at a nice restaurant, followed by new age jazz at the Old Fruitmarket, and drinks at a hotel bar that was hosting a free late-night jam session. They bugged out just after midnight and wound down at the hotel with giggly, sloppy sex. Perfection.  
  
Everything went fine on Saturday too, with a late start and an afternoon big band concert in the park, after which they split up so she could do some shopping and John could ... do whatever it was he did. Possibly, in hindsight, some errand for Sherlock, since when she arrived back at the hotel, she was more than surprised to see Sherlock and John sitting in the lounge. John at least had the good grace to look sheepish, while Sherlock busied himself with his phone.  
  
John got up and greeted Sarah with a quick kiss. "He's here on some business for Mycroft, honestly, nothing to do with us," he assured her, pressing her hands between his. "And nothing he needs me for," he added more pointedly, half turning to Sherlock.  
  
Sherlock waved a hand dismissively. "I've already taken care of it. I'll be on the next train back to London." He didn't make a move to get up, though, and something about the way he said it made Sarah take pity on him. He was probably missing John, even though they'd only been apart for a day and a half. It was kind of cute, actually.  
  
"Why don't you join us for dinner, Sherlock," she said, smiling at John, who smiled back, gratefully, and mouthed, 'Thank you.'  
  
"I'll just go change," she said. "You two can decide where we should eat. Just... maybe not Chinese." She winked at John and kissed him on the cheek. "Half an hour all right?"  
  
"Perfect," John agreed.  
  


* * *

  
'Not Chinese' turned out to be a quirky African-Middle Eastern fusion place that was woefully understaffed and had them crowded around a table that was clearly meant for just two people, but made up for it with the most divine lamb meatballs. John ordered their drinks, something Sarah had never heard of, but it was deceptively innocuous looking and had her feeling the effects after a glass and a half.  
  
Sherlock was pleasantly ... well, pleasant. He let John and Sarah take turns discussing the musicians they'd seen perform so far, and allowed that jazz was one of the more bearable genres of modern music. His humour was dry and cutting, but still humour that stayed just this side of base insults. He even made Sarah a backhanded compliment about how, if John had to have a girlfriend, she wasn't the worst he could have picked. She was aware it was all entirely for John's benefit, but she was quite enjoying having the attention of two attractive men tonight. And Sherlock was definitely very attractive.  
  
She couldn't imagine what business he might have in Glasgow that entailed him wearing a seven-hundred-pound suit, but she was certainly reaping the benefits of it tonight. And good God, those hands. The way they flitted around, lighting on the silverware, fiddling with the centerpiece, touching John's shoulder or elbow to emphasize his points. She felt as if she were watching the mating dance of an exotic bird, and was quite falling under their spell. Wow, those drinks must really be stronger than they looked. In light of what happened next, even that was probably an understatement.  
  
After they'd finished eating and were waiting for their coffee to be brought, John excused himself to visit the loo. The look Sherlock cast after him, just briefly - with a softness he rarely allowed to show - combined with the lusty thoughts that had been simmering in her all throughout dinner and a kind of sense that holidays existed in another dimension, all coalesced into the maddest, absolutely the most insane idea she'd ever had. And then the alcohol made her say it out loud. At least that was the only way she could explain it to herself later.  
  
"If you wanted to, you could fuck me tonight."  
  
Sherlock looked just about as shocked as she was that she'd actually said it.  
  
"I mean, not like that," she rushed on in an attempt to explain herself, "only yes, exactly like that." She took a breath and started over. "I meant, I see how you look at him, and I know he doesn't think of you that way, and that's totally okay, I know you're okay with it and however the two of you have it worked out, it's fine for you. But if you wanted to, once, you could... it would kind of be like having sex with him, wouldn't it? I'd have sex with him first, then come to you, and you could... in the same place he just was." It made a lot more sense in her head than was coming through in her words, but Sherlock seemed to be following.  
  
"The two of you don't use condoms." It was almost a question. Sarah decided to treat it as one, anyway. Because having the palpable evidence of John's ... presence ... would be important to Sherlock. To make the experience as realistic as possible for him.  
  
She shook her head. "We're... I mean, I'm sure you know, because you know everything, right? About John? We're exclusive and we're both clean. We haven't used a condom in a couple of months." She glanced nervously in the direction of the loos to see if John was coming back yet.  
  
"How would you get away from him?" he asked. The way he was looking at her - intense and calculating - sobered her up just a bit, because he seemed to be taking her proposal completely seriously.  
  
"What do you mean?" she asked, trying to keep on track and not get lost in those eyes.  
  
"You can't just get out of bed and say you're going down to my room. Which is 312, by the way."  
  
"Three-hundred-twelve, right," she said, laughing a bit now, because it looked like he was actually agreeing to this. And of course his room would be on the same floor as theirs, albeit several doors down. She wondered if he'd done it on purpose. "Um... I don't know, I'll just say I have to go out for a bit." She couldn't think, she literally could not put two coherent thoughts together. Had Sherlock Holmes just agreed to have sex with her? But of course they needed a cover story. It was important that John not know about this. Neither of them wanted to hurt him. Not that she felt like this would really be cheating. In her mind, Sherlock was sort of an extension of John, or maybe it was the other way round. And there he was, making his way back between the tables. Oh God, this was ridiculous, this would never work, she was such an idiot-  
  
Sherlock leaned over and spoke to her quickly, in a low voice. "Tell him you've run out of lens solution. There's a Lloyds two streets over that's open late."  
  
Sarah swallowed over a dry throat. She knew this was wrong, wrong, wrong, her mother would absolutely have a heart attack, but God, wouldn't it be brilliant! Sherlock was waiting for her to answer. Now or never, Sarah Sawyer, she told herself firmly.  
  
"Okay. God, yes, okay!" she said. All of a sudden, she felt rather light-headed. She hid her absolutely stonking grin in her glass as John sat down again. She felt like a combination between the hugest slut and some kind of relationship therapist-cum-matchmaker. And was rather proud of both.  
  


* * *

  
Sherlock buggered off before the server brought the bill. Normally, Sarah would have considered that fairly rude - and typical - but in this case, she thought he might need to make some sort of preparations for later on. Purchase condoms or shower (God only knew what his personal hygiene habits were; he looked and smelled clean enough - smelled rather posh and yummy, actually - but she'd seen plenty of horror stories underneath people's clothes during her career) or psych himself up to having sex with a woman. Oh God, was she going to be the first woman he slept with? She hadn't considered that. Well, he wouldn't have agreed to it if he didn't want to. If nothing else, that was the one God's honest truth about Sherlock Holmes that would always hold. And they could always stop if either of them became too uncomfortable. She had absolutely no qualms about him insisting or forcing himself on her. No matter what other lines he crossed, that kind of behaviour wasn't in his nature. She was sure of that. And John would be just down the hall.  
  
As soon as she and John got back to their room and hung up their jackets, John pulled her close and rubbed his hands down her bare arms. "Thanks for that," he said in a low voice, nuzzling her neck.  
  
She pulled her long hair out of the way and settled her hands on his arse. It was plump and solid, and she wanted it out of those trousers rather quickly. "You're welcome. He was just lonely."  
  
"Mm," John hummed his agreement as he worked his way up to her mouth. "We should still probably blockade the door with the dresser."  
  
Sarah chuckled around his kisses. Because of course, simply locking it wouldn't keep Sherlock out, should he be determined. "And the windows," she put in. "Don't think being on the third floor would stop him."  
  
"No," he agreed, smiling. "And now I think that's quite enough about my flatmate."  
  
Sarah stepped away, grabbing John's hand as she walked backwards toward the bed. "Absolutely. Let's talk about you and me and that gorgeous dick of yours." She laughed a little and lifted her top over her head.  
  
"I thought we were leaving Sherlock out of this," he teased as he fell onto the bed, pulling her down on top of him.  
  
Sarah groped John's crotch, finding a thick, yet still soft handful there. "You named your dick after your flatmate?" she said, wrinkling her nose and barely able to stop from collapsing into helpless laughter.  
  
John seemed to be struggling with the same problem. "That is so not on," he said, but his mouth curled with amusement even as he curved one hand around her breast and caressed the material of her bra with his thumb.  
  
"Mm, come here, you, you know you love it." She lifted her head to catch his mouth with hers and tugged at his shirt until it came free from his waistband.  
  
"Yeah, I kind of do," he mumbled into her mouth, and something went soft in her at that, at the breathless, almost shy way he said it.  
  
They'd never said the L word to each other, but there were moments, like now, when it was implied. He wasn't the love of her life or her soulmate or anything like that, but she was invested enough emotionally that there was a little flicker of jealousy at the thought of John with someone else, a little twinge of longing when they'd gone a couple of weeks without seeing each other. But if he did ever decide their arrangment was no longer working for him, it wouldn't destroy her. It wasn't that she was maudlin or so insecure that she obsessed over such a scenario, but she was confronted with John breaking dates or simply being unavailable due to his Sherlock commitments often enough that she'd had to sit down and ask herself whether she'd be able to handle losing him at some point. Whether to one of his and Sherlock's crazy adventures or just drifting apart. And she'd decided that, while she'd be sad about it, she didn't define herself or her self-worth through John. It would be okay. And that was probably what kept him coming back.  
  
Well, that and (she liked to think) her pretty amazing breasts. Which John had succeeded in freeing and was now licking and nipping, pulling her nipples into tight peaks. (And by the way, where had her top got to? She'd bought it especially for this trip and she'd be damned if it was going to end up crushed beyond all recognition and smeared with body fluids.)  
  
Sarah stroked John's back and shoulders - which were really, really lovely and carried a good, thick layer of muscle - while he went to town on her breasts. They were always the first thing he went for, and no complaints from her end. It didn't take many minutes of him sucking and teasing one nipple with his teeth and tongue while plucking and rolling the other with his fingers until she was aroused and throbbing. She wrapped one leg around him and raised her hips to rub against him, frustrated by the fact that they were both still wearing their trousers.  
  
"Come on, get these off," she said breathlessly, pushing her hands down between them to get at her own trousers.  
  
John lifted off her and made quick work of his clothing, dumping everything over the side of the bed before lying down next to her again.  
  
"There it is, come here, you gorgeous thing, you," she said and reached for his half-hard penis as she pushed him onto his back and kissed him. Then she slid down to take his penis in her mouth and coax it into full arousal.  
  
She really, really liked John's penis. It was nice and thick, a bit bigger around than a Twister ice lolly, but not too long, so she could get a good portion of it in her mouth without it being uncomfortable.  
  
"Ah yeah, that's it," John encouraged her, reaching down to move her hair out of the way.  
  
She glanced up at him and smiled around her mouthful. He had one arm crooked up behind his head to support it so he could watch her, lazily - like a pasha, the image shot through her mind.  
  
She redoubled her efforts, trying to discompose him by increasing her pace and flattening her tongue to cover as much surface area as possible. John didn't necessarily need to go deep, but he responded very well to constant friction and pressure. It didn't take long until his penis was stock-solid and the glans was completely exposed. The skin would be stretched and shiny, as if tended to by a thorough and enthusiastic polisher. The next time she looked up, his gaze had gone a bit unfocussed off to the side and his breaths were unsteady, but he quickly recovered and caught her eye.  
  
"Fuck, you're good at that," he said, his voice rumbling low in his chest as he stroked her head fondly. "Come up here."  
  
She pulled off with one last, long suck, and lifted herself up so she was kneeling over him on all fours. She ducked her head to kiss him, slow and deep, while she reached down to encircle his penis with one hand and rub it firmly up and down with the remnants of her saliva.  
  
"You want to do it like this?" she asked when she came up for air.  
  
In answer, John kissed her more intently and pushed down on her hips. With the understanding of months of common experience, she stilled her hand and held his penis in place so she could lower herself onto it. He slid into her slickened passage easily. They both paused their kiss at the same moment to look down and watch him disappear into her.  
  
"Mmm, right there," she said, shifting her hips around so she could better appreciate the fullness.  
  
"Yeah." His tongue appeared between his teeth as he kneaded her breasts, rubbing his thumbs over her nipples and sending zinging lines of arousal right down to where they were connected. She sat up and rocked on him, grinding her pubic bone against his and further stimulating her swollen vulva on the roughness of his pubic hair.  
  
"You feel so good," she said in a low voice and tilted forward to brace her hands on the bed on either side of his shoulders.  
  
"You like that, don't you? Come on, let's get you off." He tried to match her movements to offer her more resistance and pinched and twisted both of her nipples.  
  
She closed her eyes and dropped her head down between her shoulders, enjoying the tension building, suspended in those three points of contact between the two of them. "Mm, yeah, how about you?"  
  
"Enjoying the view at the moment."  
  
She opened her eyes and caught his and laughed.  
  
He grinned back. "Come on, what do you want? Like this?" He put one hand down and pressed his thumb against her clitoris, focusing her attention and drawing all the points of arousal in her body into a single taut line.  
  
"Yeah, that could do me." She closed her eyes again and slid back and forth on him, chasing her impending climax like an itch that was just out of reach.  
  
"That's it, just like that," he encouraged her. "You're gorgeous; God, I could watch you all night."  
  
"Not going to last that long," she admitted, a little breathless.  
  
"What do you need?"  
  
"Nothing, just like that, a little faster, faster," she urged, moving her pelvis in little circles as she felt the inexorable outcome approaching.  
  
She looked down at John, disheveled and with a look of studied concentration on his face as he focused on increasing her level of stimulation. They'd never bought into the supposed romance of waiting for each other and trying to climax together. Sometimes she was faster or randier, and sometimes he was; it didn't really matter. It generally worked out to their mutual satisfaction. Tonight it seemed to be her turn; maybe because she was keyed up over Sherlock.  
  
Just as she thought that, John glanced up at her. He was flushed red, his mouth hanging open a little and breathing hard, and she had a little stab of realization that this was what Sherlock wanted: John Watson, sharing his heart and his body, caught up in a complicated emotional and chemical process too intimate for words, but that he could never have due to a caprice of biology. What she was offering him was little more than a brief physical interaction with some of John's discarded cells, at most an ephemeral essence of experience transferred by some commutative theory of association. And that despite the fact that what connected John and Sherlock was much deeper and more profound than the gentle affection she and John shared. And yet here she was, holding sway over John's body - and maybe a small piece of his heart - while Sherlock sat alone in his room. Did John know? He must. Maybe this was the best he could do; the best they all could do.  
  
John was shifting his thumb rapidly from side to side now over her swollen nub while he pinched her nipple with his other hand in a rapid, staccato rhythm. It only took a few more seconds before she hit the point of no return.  
  
"Now," she said, "now," and she felt her face contorting, her eyes squeezing shut as she dissolved into the sensations flooding through her body, her muscles clenching and grasping at John where he was still impaling her.  
  
She was still throbbing and catching her breath when John grabbed her by the hips and rolled her onto her back, dislodging himself in the process, then scrambled to get on top of her. She spread her legs wide and lifted her hips to help, and then he was inside again, pumping into her with short, barely controlled jerks, supporting himself on his good elbow.  
  
Sarah put her hands on his buttocks and added what little strength she had left in her arms to his thrusts.  
  
"Yeah, come on, harder, harder," she encouraged him.  
  
He had his eyes tightly shut, his lower lip firmly between his teeth, grunting with every slap of his testicles against her arse, and then she felt the spill inside her, the bloom of heat and the additional slipperiness as he spiraled down, continuing to move back and forth in ever lazier rocking motions.  
  
Finally, he dropped down onto her, both hands curled around her shoulders, and panted into the side of her neck, almost but not quite kissing her. She wrapped her arms around him, one over his shoulders and the other holding his hips, and kissed his temple.  
  
"You all right?" she asked when it felt like his breathing was coming back to normal.  
  
He grunted out a brief chuckle. "Yeah. Sorry." He levered himself up and blinked around, then grabbed the packet of tissues they'd left out on the nightstand the previous night. He took one out and handed it to her so she could catch any dribbles as he pulled carefully out. "You?"  
  
"Perfect," she assured him before indulging in another series of kisses.  
  
Sarah would have been content to end the evening right there. If she hadn't made that arrangement with Sherlock... But she had, and after the insights she'd had tonight, she couldn't in good conscience leave him alone now. She was going to need to get up to go to the bathroom and clean up a bit anyway. She gave John one more kiss, and rolled off to the side. "Be right back."  
  
In the bathroom, she did a cursory clean-up, just enough so nothing was dripping down her legs. She'd have to put something on to go down the hall to Sherlock's room. And of course all her clothes were back in the bedroom, and the hotel didn't provide dressing gowns, and- She had to stop and force herself to take a couple of deep, calming breaths. She thought it was quite possible she had more butterflies in her stomach now than she'd had the very first time she'd had sex.  
  
She dropped the toilet paper she'd been blotting herself with into the toilet and flushed it, then gripped the sink with both hands and stared at herself in the mirror. Hair askew, face flushed, skin splotchy, the remnants of her makeup smeared... She wasn't exactly a prize at the moment. She could still back out. She rather doubted Sherlock would come pounding on the door asking what was taking her so long.  
  
On the other hand, when would an opportunity like this come along again? She was pushing forty, no grey hairs yet but it wouldn't be long, the lines around her mouth and eyes and on her forehead already impossible to overlook. There weren't going to be any more grand adventures or torrid affairs in her life. But right now, there was a dead gorgeous man down the hall waiting to have sex with her. No, there wasn't any love involved, but - and this wasn't really a new revelation - she did care about him, and for him. Being in a relationship with John meant being in one with Sherlock too. This wasn't a pity fuck though. He didn't actually care about sex, she knew that. It was more about inclusion and friendship, and - well, the challenge and the notch on her bedpost, and maybe a teensy, tiny bit about carving a spot for herself in the unit that was John-and-Sherlock. Not as John's addendum, but as the only person in the world who had an intimate link to both men. And maybe that's why Sherlock had agreed to it too; to forge a metaphysical bond with John in lieu of the physical one that would never come to pass. Well, she could rationalise it all tomorrow. Right now, the clock was ticking.  
  
First things first: she had to make her excuses to John. She took the bottle of contact lens solution out of her toiletry bag, unscrewed the top, and dumped the contents down the sink. In case he checked. Not that she thought he'd be suspicious, but this was Sherlock Holmes' colleague, best friend, and co-conspirator. He noticed almost as much as Sherlock did. She rinsed the sink thoroughly and was about to bend over to take a drink when she thought maybe Sherlock would like it better if her mouth still smelled and tasted like John. Oh, she hadn't even thought about whether she was going to kiss him. Somehow that seemed more intimate than intercourse. She supposed she would, if he wanted to. In for a penny.  
  
One more glance in the mirror to give herself a good old-fashioned chuck on the chin for luck, and she marched back into the bedroom. John already had his briefs back on and was sitting on the edge of the bed, likely waiting for his turn in the bathroom.  
  
"I'm such an idiot, I used the last of my contact lens solution last night and didn't even notice," she said, aiming for lighthearted and rueful as she picked up her discarded underwear from the floor.  
  
"Oh, too bad," John said. "Can you just leave them in? We can get some more in the morning."  
  
"Yeah, I'd ... really rather not," she said as she tried to casually get back into her knickers. "They get terribly sticky and I don't want to spend our last day in Glasgow rubbing at my eyes. Don't worry, I noticed there's a late-night chemist a couple streets over. They should still be open. I'll only be about twenty minutes." She hoped that was enough time. Maybe she shouldn't have given a specific time frame. Well, it was too late now.  
  
John reached down for his trousers. "No, it's all right, I'll go for you," he said amiably and started to pull them on.  
  
"No!" she blurted out in a brief panic, then forced herself to calm down. If she made a big deal out of it, he'd just get suspicious. "No, it's fine. I'm already dressed," she said, throwing on her top - which had in fact ended up safely over the arm of a chair - without a bra.  
  
"Sarah, I'll go," John said calmly but firmly as he stood and pulled up his zip. "No offense, but you might draw the wrong kind of attention going out looking like that." He raised his eyebrows affectionately in her direction.  
  
"Oh..." Right. She swiped self-consciously at her hair and became aware of a warm trickle oozing out of her. Not exactly appropriate for wandering the streets of central Glasgow at eleven PM. She supposed it would work this way as well. She'd just have to make sure they were very quick. In and out. Wham, bam, thank you ma'am. She giggled, feeling slightly hysterical. "Okay, well, thanks. I'll just wait here then." She sat down gingerly on the edge of the bed and watched John finish getting dressed.  
  
"Anything else I should pick up while I'm out?" he asked as he slipped his wallet into his pocket.  
  
She shook her head. "No, that's it. I'm really sorry."  
  
And all of a sudden, she meant it for what she'd arranged with Sherlock too. If John ever found out, he'd really be hurt. She was a terrible person. But John would do absolutely anything for Sherlock; she knew that too. She'd gathered from things that he and Sherlock had both let drop here and there that John had even killed someone once, to protect Sherlock. Sex probably wouldn't be completely off limits either, if it were truly integral to Sherlock's happiness. Which it wasn't, she knew that. But the point was that John would do it, so maybe he wouldn't be as upset as someone else might be whose girlfriend was having sex with his best friend. About to, anyway.  
  
John came over and put a finger under her chin to tilt her head up for a kiss. "It's fine." He pulled back and caught her eye and held it, as if he were delivering a weighty pronouncement. "It's absolutely fine," he repeated softly, stroking her cheek and smiling. Sarah's heart fluttered and her stomach contracted, because it was as if he knew exactly what she'd been thinking. But he didn't, obviously. Obviously. She was just imagining things. Guilty conscience.  
  
Then he straightened up and everything was normal again. She smiled back and sat on the bed, very straight and prim, her legs crossed tightly, as he went to the door.  
  
"Won't be long," he said cheerfully.  
  
"See you in a bit," she said and waved.  
  
The door clicked shut. Sarah jumped up, then sat down again, letting out a long, shaky breath. She should wait a bit, in case he'd forgot something and came back. She looked at her watch. The second hand seemed to be moving at half-speed. Twenty minutes. He might be back even sooner. This was insane. They were going to get caught. She waited exactly one minute, then propelled herself off the bed into a flurry of activity. Trousers on - key card out of her purse - dash into the bathroom and run a brush through the knots in her hair - _No, who cares! He won't give a toss what your hair looks like!_ she scolded herself, recognising she was just stalling. She threw the hairbrush back into her toiletry bag and went back into the bedroom. Was she forgetting anything?  
  
Her heart was beating frantically in her throat, a crazy mix of anticipation, excitement, and fear. Was this what John felt when he was in the thick of things with Sherlock? He'd tried more than once to explain to her what he found so irresistible about going for days without proper sleep or a solid meal, rooting around in garbage bins, leaping into the Thames in the dead of winter (or the summer, for that matter, it's not like it was particularly appealing in any season), being run down, beat up, kidnapped, and shot at. The best he could come up with was that it made him feel alive - which she knew must be an exaggeration, because it wasn't as if he were insensate the rest of the time. But right now, the fight-or-flight instinct kicking in, she thought that maybe he was talking about being confronted with his own mortality, the possibility of death or at least the end of life as he knew it. It did give a new perspective, brought everything into much sharper focus. Not that this was a life-or-death situation, but it certainly could end badly.  
  
No matter, she had to make her move now, or they wouldn't have time. She went to the door and listened. No sound. Cracked it open. Empty hall. She ran, bare-footed, to room 312, squeezed her eyes shut and knocked.  
  
She'd barely had time to lower her hand before the door opened. She opened her eyes and let out the breath she'd been holding since leaving her room. Sherlock. In his shirtsleeves, the top three buttons undone. One eyebrow raised as if to say, 'Well, shall we?'  
  
She hopped inside and stood just inside the door, feeling awkward and very nervous. "He's gone," she blurted out.  
  
Sherlock closed the door and frowned. "John? What do you mean?"  
  
"Oh, everything's fine," she assured him. "It's just that he offered to get the contact lens solution for me." She grimaced slightly. "Sorry. It'll be fine, but we don't have that much time."  
  
"No," Sherlock agreed. He stepped toward the bed, his back to her, swiftly undid the rest of his buttons and shrugged out of his shirt. His back was narrow and spattered with small moles and freckles, but his musculature was more defined than John's.  
  
"You'll want to take those off too," he said over his shoulder. Then he paused and turned his head toward her, his zip already lowered. "Unless you've changed your mind?"  
  
Sarah shook her head. "No. No," she repeated, stronger. "I want to."  
  
She quickly removed her clothes, letting them fall into a pile on the floor. Sherlock, on the other hand, laid each article of clothing neatly over a chair. His legs were even longer unclothed, and his bum even tighter. An unexpected jolt of desire zinged through her. He was creamy pale all over, not a hint of a tan line. When he was done, he turned toward her. His nipples were pink, in contrast to John's brown ones, and his penis was - not aroused. He looked to be of average size and uncircumcised.  
  
"Do you want me to... Should I touch you?" She stepped closer, uncertain but determined.  
  
He made a negative sound. "Let me see." He came over and stood in front of her, his hands hovering as if feeling for emanations from her body, looking her over carefully.  
  
She fought the instinct to bring her arms up to cover herself. She'd never enjoyed being the object of Sherlock's scrutiny. It wasn't that she was particularly self-conscious or lacking in confidence, but he had a way of making absolutely everything come up lacking. She didn't want to care what he thought of her. John liked her - quite a lot, in fact - and that's what was important. But maybe part of the reason she was here tonight was that she wanted to prove to Sherlock that she was worthy of John, just as much as he was. That she was brave and steadfast, clever and strong, and that she was just as willing to put her hand in the fire for him.  
  
Sherlock closed the rest of the distance between them, his knees knocking against hers and his chest brushing her breasts. She could smell his aftershave, something spicy and dark, and the sweetness of their drinks from dinner on his breath. He rested his hands on her shoulders first, then let them skim down her arms, much as John had done when they first entered their room. She shivered as much at the odd sense of déjà-vu as at the goosebumps they raised. Sherlock closed his eyes and tilted his head down. She thought he was going to kiss her, and she let her lips part slightly, but instead he started smelling her face and her mouth, sampling her lips just briefly with his tongue.  
  
"You had him in your mouth," Sherlock remarked, his voice low and dark, and Sarah realised that, of course, she was now a crime scene. He was going to gather all the evidence her body contained and paint himself a picture of what had gone on, what she and John had done.  
  
"Yes," Sarah managed. Her eyes had fallen shut as well. "He likes that. I do too."  
  
Sherlock's reponse was to insert his tongue between her lips without preamble and seek out all the places John had been. It wasn't a kiss. It was more like a thorough cleansing, making sure that he'd found every trace and secured them. God, but he had it bad. She hadn't been entirely certain until this moment.  
  
When he pulled back, his chest was rising and falling with a perceptible degree of excitement. So he wasn't immune to sexual arousal, she thought a bit smugly. She glanced down.  
  
"Do you want me to-" she started to ask, because her original offer had been that she would do everything with Sherlock that she had with John.  
  
"No," he said curtly, now following some invisible track down her neck to her chest, barely touching her, only the tip of his nose or - perhaps inadvertently - his lips brushing her skin, leaving a trail of not-quite-enough in their wake.  
  
"He spent quite a while playing with your breasts," he said once he'd completed his survey there. "Mouth and hands. Sucked and bit - not hard. You don't like it too rough. He enjoys your breasts quite a lot. Expected. You enjoy it too. You like the power they have over him."  
  
"I don't-" Sarah started to protest, frowning at him, but he was right. It wasn't power, exactly, but she did like having that ace-in-the-hole, that incontrovertible physical attribute that guaranteed John's attention. She noticed that Sherlock didn't seem all that keen on her breasts himself, or at least wasn't about to let them - or her - distract him from his current line of pursuit.  
  
He dropped to his knees, his hands on her hips now, moving across her stomach and down into her pubic hair. "And here...." Without warning, he angled his face so he could dart his tongue out and taste her. She inhaled sharply at the unexpected feeling of his tongue between her folds, but she didn't move away, not even when he held her hips more firmly and pressed his face against her. He pulled back just as quickly. "Missionary, it won't have taken long," he pronounced, then looked up at her, his brow slightly furrowed. "Do you find sex with him satisfactory?"  
  
"Yes!" she said hotly. "John is a very thorough and considerate lover. Better than this ... evidence-gathering, that's for certain. Is this your idea of foreplay?"  
  
He sat back on his heels and cocked his head to one side. "I wasn't aware I was supposed to be providing more than a basic service. I was under the impression this was, how would one put it, 'a sure thing.'" Abruptly, he stood and stepped away from her. "On the bed," he ordered as he strode around to the head of the bed and settled there on his knees.  
  
"I thought I was the one providing you with the service," she countered, a little incredulous.  
  
"Surely you don't think I believe you have solely altruistic motives for asking me to bed."  
  
"I could leave right now."  
  
"You could, but you won't," he said, as if the entire thing were too tiresome.  
  
"Why not?"  
  
"Because," he said, leaning forward to brace himself on both arms, which caused the long muscles in his arms to stretch and flex in a way which shouldn't be enticing at all, given his incredibly poor bedside manner, "I'm going to bring you to climax using only my tongue while I lick up every trace of John's semen, and then I'm going to enter you from behind and fuck you until I come, and if you're very cooperative, there might even be another orgasm in it for you."  
  
Sarah's knees went weak even as she scolded herself for being so easily manipulated. She rallied herself enough to counter, "I've already come once tonight, I really don't think I have two more in me, especially not in the next ten minutes."  
  
"Let's think of it as a challenge then, shall we? Lie down." He nodded at the bed.  
  
"You're hardly going to be able to have intercourse with me like that," she said archly, looking pointedly at his still unaroused genitals. She did get on the bed, though, scooting around so that her legs were positioned toward him.  
  
"Let that be my concern. First things first." He grasped her calves and tugged her closer, so that she had to bend her knees up. Then he crouched down, used his thumbs to hold her open, and buried his tongue in her.  
  
She gasped involuntarily and grabbed her thighs in reaction to the sudden flood of pleasure signals. She was still swollen and sensitive from her round of sex with John, and Sherlock was rougher and more forceful than John ever was. It wasn't painful, or even unpleasant, really. In fact, it was far from unpleasant, the bastard. It wasn't that he was trying to pleasure her; his interest was clearly selfish, as he'd said. But in the course of greedily lapping up all of John's secretions, he couldn't help but stimulate every nook and cranny, grinding his nose and chin against her, sucking and spreading her open with all the focus, determination, and attention to detail that incredible mind of his was capable of.  
  
It was entirely obscene, absolutely the filthiest, most shameless cunnilingus she'd ever received, and when he lengthened his tongue into a column of stiff flesh and used it to plunder her vagina for what he could glean from it, the onslaught of sensation set off an orgasm that seemed to reach up and seize the deepest, most secret parts of her, pulling and twisting and leaving her keening and gasping. It was the hardest she'd come in quite a long time, although maybe it was because it was her second orgasm of the night. Maybe.  
  
Sherlock left off and moved back, and when she had recovered enough to look down her body at him, he was sitting on his heels, fisting his penis, which was already hard, in a rapid tempo. His face - shiny and wet - was angled down to watch himself. He was breathing hard, his mouth hanging slightly open, and something had shifted. Whereas before, it had been something almost playful, a challenge, for both of them, now there was an urgency that went beyond the pressure from the time constraint.  
  
"I could do that-" she started to say, ratcheting herself up onto her elbows, but he shook his head.  
  
"Turn over." He wiped his face on his shoulder, then again with his free hand and shuffled forward on his knees.  
  
She rolled onto her stomach uneasily. "We don't have to," she said, because there was something desperate about him now, something that made her uncomfortable. He wouldn't even let her touch him. Was he that put off by having sex with a woman? Or was it just her? Why was he even doing this then? Because it wasn't for her, that was for damn sure.  
  
"Lift up," he said, ignoring what she'd said.  
  
She half twisted around so she could look at him. "Sherlock, we should stop, not like this."  
  
"No, I'm ready, I want to-"  
  
"No. We should stop," she said firmly and got up onto her knees. "We're stopping."  
  
"I have an erection, and I am perfectly capable of sustaining it through intercourse with you," he insisted hotly.  
  
Sarah laughed without humour and sat back on her heels, covering face with her hands. "Oh my God." She shook her head and took her hands away so she could look at Sherlock. He looked insulted, impatient, and just a bit bewildered.  
  
"Sherlock," she said, placing one hand lightly on his knee. "You are amazing. Brilliant. But you don't want to have sex with me. Look, I don't want to be ungrateful. You gave me a pretty spectacular orgasm, and I would be more than happy to return the favour for you, if that's what you want."  
  
Sherlock glanced off to the side, then shook his head. "No."  
  
She squeezed his knee briefly, then let go. "Okay. But I think... the reason I offered, and the reason you accepted... that's not going to be fixed by going through with the rest of this. I guess nothing can really fix it, but, you know, sex isn't the only way of expressing love. And I'm not going to come between you. I couldn't. No one could. Believe me."  
  
Sherlock unfolded his legs and stepped off the bed. "Yet John has chosen you as his companion," he said coolly.  
  
"Sherlock, you're the one he lives with. You're the one he faces down danger for. I may be a companion for him at the moment, but I'm interchangeable. You're his Tardis." She paused. "You do know-"  
  
"Yes," Sherlock said testily as he pulled on his shirt. "One can hardly share rooms with John and escape an intimate acquaintance with the Doctor."  
  
Sarah smiled and got up to put her own clothes back on. "No, I suppose not. So are we okay? I'm sorry it didn't exactly work out the way I'd imagined, but I think it's better this way."  
  
"I have no argument with you," he said crisply. "Your offer was made without a full understanding of what you were getting into."  
  
Sarah had no idea what he meant by that, but it was too late and she was too punch-drunk from sex and weirdness to try and engage in a verbal sparring match with Sherlock Holmes. She finished buttoning her trousers.  
  
"Right, well, I'd better go. John-" She jerked her thumb toward the door.  
  
"Yes, you'd better hurry," he said, sounding completely unconcerned. "He should be back soon." He sat down and started putting on his shoes.  
  
"What- Are you going out again?" she asked, a bit surprised. Not that he looked like he'd just been having sex, but he hadn't even washed his face.  
  
"Very good," he said snidely, "it seems I'm rubbing off on you. Or no, I suppose it turns out I'm not." He stood and picked up his jacket from the back of the chair.  
  
"Don't be like that, you know why -"  
  
He strode past her to the door. "You can see yourself out, I presume."  
  
"Sherlock-" she called after him, but he was already gone. Damn. That had not gone well. She didn't think it had been entirely a mistake, though. It had confirmed a lot of things she'd speculated about before, and given her a chance to let him know that he had an ally where John was concerned, and that she wanted the three of them to co-exist without anyone feeling excluded. So, no, not a mistake at all.  
  
Miraculously, John wasn't back yet when Sarah returned to their room. It had been almost half an hour. She hoped he hadn't run into any trouble. She went into the bathroom and started the shower. She probably smelled like Sherlock's aftershave, and she wouldn't put it past John to notice.  
  
When she returned to the bedroom, hopefully smelling only like her own products again, she was both relieved and nervous to find John lying in bed under the covers, already dressed for bed and watching television. He turned it off with the remote when he saw her.  
  
"Sorry it took so long," he said. He sounded tired. He looked it too, his face pale and the bags under his eyes more prominent than usual. "The chemist around the corner was already closed, so I had to go to the train station." He pointed at a white paper bag on the dresser. "I hope I got the right brand."  
  
"I'm sure it's fine. Sorry for all the trouble. Thank you." She picked up the bag, but paused before going back to the bathroom to complete the ruse. There was something off about him, but he wasn't staring at her. He wasn't particularly avoiding looking at her either. He didn't seem all that occupied with her at all, to tell the truth. Maybe something had happened while he was out. "Is everything all right?"  
  
John forced a smile. "Yeah, it's fine. Just knackered. Think I'm just going to sleep." He reached over to turn off the light on his side.  
  
"All right. I'll be there in a minute."  
  
When Sarah came back a few minutes later, John was lying on his side with his eyes closed. She could tell he wasn't asleep, but she slid quietly into bed on the other side and turned off her light.  
  


* * *

  
"Hey." John stood in the doorway, his duffel dangling from one hand.  
  
Sherlock sat slouched down in his armchair, wearing his lounging outfit of loose t-shirt and blue silk dressing gown. He didn't look up, instead continuing to pluck at his violin aimlessly.  
  
John went into the bedroom and dropped his bag, then came back out, made a pit stop at the refrigerator, and returned to the living room with a bottle of beer in his hand.  
  
Sherlock had swung himself sideways in his chair so that his feet were hanging off the side. He was clutching his violin to his chest and staring at the ceiling.  
  
John sat down opposite him and drank his beer. Sherlock didn't give any sign of being aware of John's presence.  
  
After John had drunk about half the bottle, he rested it on the arm of the chair and broke the silence. "You were right."  
  
Sherlock stirred and frowned at the ceiling. "I was wrong. She'd be fine with a threesome."  
  
"I wouldn't," John said, his gaze steadily on Sherlock.  
  
Sherlock screwed up his face and turned his head toward John. "You were the one-"  
  
"And I was wrong, all right?" John interrupted. "I can't-" He looked down and ran his thumbnail along the seam of the armrest. "I changed my mind. I don't want to."  
  
Sherlock turned back to the ceiling, but his flaring nostrils and downturned mouth belay his outer calm. Finally, he stood and whirled away toward the window. "Then we'll go on as before," he said. It was meant to be a final statement, but there was a question wrapped up in there somewhere.  
  
"No," John disagreed. "I can't- I mean, I really like Sarah, I like what we have. I enjoy doing normal couple things with her, and yeah, I enjoy the sex."  
  
"I wouldn't have noticed," Sherlock sniped.  
  
John sighed. "Yeah, well, I never tried to make a secret of it. Look, we both knew from the start this wasn't going to be easy."  
  
"No, we didn't, John. I shouldn't have a problem with any of this." He gestured expansively with the hand holding the violin. "I should be glad you have someone to do all those pointless, normal couple things with," he spat out. "It shouldn't matter to me whether you're down at the pub with Stamford or having sex with some woman, because I know you'll always come when I ask you to regardless. And I should really not feel like I've been stabbed in the chest and kicked in the gut when you tell her how good she is at fellatio with that hormonal look on your face, or when you rave about how much you like watching her get off with you, or when you hold her and kiss her after climaxing inside her."  
  
John didn't respond for several seconds, his blue eyes unflinchingly registering the pain in Sherlock's grey ones. "I'm sorry," he said finally.  
  
Sherlock laid his violin down in its case on the desk. "You have nothing to be sorry for," he said, more controlled now. "It's my problem."  
  
"No. I shouldn't have had you watch. I didn't think- I don't know what I thought. I guess I thought it would be useful, you'd see what she likes, how she reacts..."  
  
"All I could see was you. Even when I was with her, all I saw was you... with her. On her, in her-" His teeth clenched as he spoke, his fingers cramped white on the latch of the violin case.  
  
John exhaled heavily and went over to stand beside Sherlock at the desk. He looked down and touched his fingers lightly to a pen lying there. "I won't see her any more. Not like that, anyway."  
  
"Don't be ridiculous," Sherlock scoffed. "You like her, you enjoy the sex - more than is warranted based purely on her appearance or any talents she might have - meaning you have an emotional attachment to her. You'd be unhappy and it would be my fault."  
  
John looked up at him, a sad smile hovering on his lips. "Sherlock. You're leaving out one very important point."  
  
Sherlock grunted petulantly.  
  
"I do like her, yes, and there's an emotional attachment there, I won't deny it. But ..." John put one hand on Sherlock's hip and tugged him closer so he was speaking against his shoulder. "I have an emotional attachment to you too," he said quietly, his lips just brushing the fabric of Sherlock's shirt. He looked up at him. "I know we've never really said it, and there probably aren't words to describe at it properly, but I can live without Sarah. I can't live without you, and I can't live with myself making you unhappy." He shook his head and looked down, taking Sherlock's hand in his. "God, look. We tried it, and it didn't work. I thought- I don't know, I thought it was easier for you this way. I thought if we were exclusive, you'd feel pinned down, that I'd be making demands on you that you weren't ready for and didn't want."  
  
Sherlock squeezed his hand. "There would never be anything I could deny you."  
  
John smiled faintly. "Yeah. Me too. That's... probably not so good."  
  
"No." Sherlock traced a line down John's arm with his other hand.  
  
"I'll talk to Sarah. She'll understand."  
  
Sherlock's hand paused on John's elbow. "You're going to tell her?"  
  
"Well, I'm not going to tell her we tricked her into having sex with both of us while the other was watching from the closet, no. And I probably won't tell her I've been sharing a bed with you the whole time I've been dating her. But yeah," he sighed, "I'll tell her about us. In fact, I'd like to... I'd like to be able to tell everyone."  
  
Sherlock lifted his hand to the back of John's head and pulled him close, pressing his nose into his hair. "I'll be the ruin of you."  
  
"We'll be the ruin of each other," John countered.  
  
Sherlock breathed in the scent of John's scalp. He could still smell Sarah's shampoo.


End file.
